


Etiam si omnes, ego non

by coastcitytourism



Series: will never let you go this time [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, basically everything from the first part, big shrug emoji, gratuitous use of imagery, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:44:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23474410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/pseuds/coastcitytourism
Summary: Etiam si omnes, ego nonis a Latin phrase which translates into English approximately as "Even if all others, not I".Sequel to "i guess i'm lying to myself, it's just you and no one else".
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen (past), Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Series: will never let you go this time [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688728
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	Etiam si omnes, ego non

**Author's Note:**

> did coastcity know she was gonna write a second part of this when she originally wrote it? absolutely not! but i thought about and decided that i kinda wanted to. also, this was originally supposed to end happily but uh guess i had some things to work through?  
also considered a prequel where i Talked about the Cheating but decided against it, idk give me another week and i might change my mind again.  
anyways, unrelated section but i hope everyone is holding up okay through all this pandemic craziness! things have been less than stellar for me, bc i got laid off and i am American so its uh not gr8, but they're getting better, and friday was my birthday so even though i had to stay home i got to celebrate w/ my family which was still great! and, on a positive note, my motivation to write is coming back!  
as usual, this is a work of pure fiction and for the love of god dont share it off here or with any RL involved parties. keep it here please

No light seeps past the blackout curtains in Pierre's bedroom. If he thinks back long enough, he can picture the yellow-tinged vintage curtains that filtered bright light through his flat when he first moved in, the ones the realtor had said really liven the place up.

He had gone with it, at least for a while, until the light stopped being airy and freeing, but stalker-ish in its tendency to not let him sleep or even exist out of its grasp. Pierre's not sure when he became such a freak about privacy and efficiency and all the other excuses that allowed the turning his apartment from bright to cavernous, but things had certainly changed.

When he comes to grips with the reality of the situation he's currently in, Pierre is grateful for the darkness of his home. Charles is there, in his bed, sprawled out like it's his own and he belongs right there, body weight pinning Pierre under the covers from where his leg is thrown haphazardly over the Frenchman's own and an arm is outstretched across his chest, holding him like this is all normal.

_It's not._ Pierre can practically feel the burn in his chest, the ache of uncertainty that pangs at the bottom of his stomach. He's played this game and lost too many times to count, too many times to keep letting Charles come back into his heart and tear the very seams of Pierre's being out, one by one, yet here is is, captured under the source of venom that poisons his blood and paralyzes him.

Pierre sighs, gently procuring himself out from underneath the Monegasque's limbs. He moves as slightly and carefully as possible, not willing to risk having Charles wake and look at him with those green eyes that look right through Pierre, tear him apart and reduce him to the very core tenants of his being without a single word.

Pierre's entire apartment feels like a juxtaposition to the intricately and carefully chosen decor and design that it had come with by default; he had replaced the too-light curtains with heavier, darker ones, had his soft carpets replaced with cold gray hardwood, and the tasteful art that once adorned the walls of the halls and rooms had been abandoned in favor of the occasional framed photograph or poster.

He creeps through the dim hall into the living room, substantially brighter with its floor-to-ceiling windows and the sliding door to the balcony, admiring the mid-morning scenery unfolding beyond the glass. It's too warm today to drink hot coffee or tea without breaking a sweat, so instead Pierre opts for a glass of juice and steps out onto the balcony, enjoying the feeling of his exposed skin being bathed in warm sun.

Milan stands not-too-far below, classical architecture and scenery combining with sharp, modern lines, a city Pierre wasn't born into but has come to love. Cars filter past on the old paved roads below his apartment- if he squints and watches closely, he can make out a classic blue Fiat, not dissimilar to the one Charles learned to drive in (and subsequently nearly killed Pierre in during one of their many teenage escapades), and Pierre can practically feel his eye twitch, taking a long sip out of his orange juice and focusing on the citrus instead.

Internally, he supposes that he would be glad if Charles slipped out now without another word; it'd hurt like hell, sure, but Pierre would rather be spared the inevitable awkward conversation and his traitorous heart allowing Charles a third run at a second chance. Pierre's running out of patience, but maybe not fast enough.

As if on cue, the glass door slides open and Charles appears on the balcony, smiling sheepishly as he takes a seat on the patio furniture opposite Pierre. He's in his boxers and his shirt from the night before, and Pierre finds himself relaxing a bit in relief that Charles hadn't already invited himself back into Pierre's closet the same way he had so rudely invited himself back into Pierre's life.

They stay quiet for a long, long time, not a single spoken greeting passing one another's lips. Pierre supposes there's not much to be said except for another string of useless apologies, and he's not really prepared to deflect those again. It's far too easy for him to claim that everything Charles had dragged him through time and time again was alright, even if it fundamentally wasn't.

Charles doesn't apologize, though. He stays quiet, gaze somewhere beyond the same horizon Pierre was just admiring, one hand tapping a rhythm onto the table. Pierre's more than halfway through his juice and his unlikely mental grand schemes to get Charles out of his flat when the Monegasque finally speaks.

"I never understood why you wouldn't just live in Monaco with the rest of us," he starts, and it ignites a new rabbit hole of self-doubt in Pierre's brain when he thinks too hard about how the _us_ in that statement includes Max and Giada and a whole ensemble cast of club-goers, "but now I think I get it. I get why you love Milan so much. It suits you," Charles finishes appreciatively.

Pierre is stiffer than a board, initially unresponsive as he squints at the tall buildings catching sunlight and reflecting it back like a giant set of mirrors, and Charles sighs. 

"Yup," Pierre says abruptly, statement ending almost as soon as he begins, hoping the one word deflection will rid him of Charles before he falls too deep once more.

"Pierre," Charles tries, his voice a bit more desperate, but Pierre remains deathly calm; not a single muscle moves a single inch. Maybe if he can prolong both of their suffering, Charles will change his mind, up and leave Pierre with his blackout curtains and orange juice and Milan sunrises.

He doesn't. Charles persists, one hand reaching across the table to gently encase the one of Pierre's holding his condensation soaked glass. Pierre doesn't pull away, but he doesn't react either, instead holding a perfectly still statuesque posture.

His non-reaction does nothing; Charles just seems pleased that Pierre's not pulling back and manages an unsure smile, barely more than a twitch of the corners of his lips.

"I'm sorry," he finally breathes, and there comes the waterfall Pierre has been expecting the whole time.

_Sorry for sleeping with Max while you were grasping for the last straws of your career._

_Sorry for lying about Giada when you had to take a break from us to rebuild your destroyed mental health._

_Sorry for being a contributor to that destruction, for nitpicking the smallest things, taking and never giving and expecting the river to never run dry._

"I know you are," Pierre says drily, voice near-deadpan. He's heard it all before, he really has- the question is, how much more can he take?

"You make me a better person," Charles continues, and if Pierre looks at him for more than a second, it seems like the Monegasque is fighting tears in his eyes. Pierre feels decidedly numb in contrast.

"I know I do," Pierre says once more, voice slighly more assured. It's _fucked_, being the moral good that balances out Charles's innate vices, had taken more than a few therapy sessions for Pierre to realize that he was more than enough, but simply too good at heart to have saved Charles and himself from this fate. He thinks he deserves better, but he'd be lying if he said he was entirely sure of that.

"You mean the world to me and I love you." Charles finishes, and his voice sounds sincere, like he genuinely believes it.

"Thanks," Pierre replies, trying not to feel guilt when Charles's face falls and he looks downtrodden. His own veins burn like he's hooked up to an IV of hydrogen peroxide, breaths catching as he drags them into his lungs.

"_Pierre_," Charles begs, both hands wrapped around one of Pierre's, "Tell me what I can do to fix this."

And Pierre's not really sure what he can do, honestly, hasn't come entirely to grips with the situation as a whole yet. Charles stares through him intently, eyes practically yearning for an acceptance of apology, a welcome back into loving arms.

"You fucked me up, Charles," Pierre laughs humorlessly.

"I know," Charles admits sadly, dropping his head, "I know I fucked up and hurt you."

"And," Pierre starts, voice a bit louder and bolder, "You did this on top of all the times I had accepted your apology in the past. Did anything I ever say matter to you at all? Was I just a good distraction?" Pierre shakes his head wistfully, "Sorry I'm no Max, I guess."

"No, no, _no_," Charles cries, shaking his head forcefully, "No, Pierre, I promise it's not like that. I promise it's you and it only ever should have been _you_ and I fucked up so hard so many times, you mean so fucking much to me, and I just-" he stops himself when Pierre raises on eyebrow, the Frenchman's face looking a bit sarcastic but eyes filled with sadness, "What can I do to prove it to you, to come back again?"

Pierre doesn't know, can't even begin to fathom, expresses as much to Charles, who gazes at him with a look somewhere between heartbreak and longing.

"I don't know who you are anymore," Pierre manages gravely, "I don't know what we are anymore. I love you still, obviously, but I just," he pauses, shaking his head, "I need time. I think you should go, Charles."

The Monegasque's eyes are glassy, and when he blinks them rapidly, Pierre can see his eyelashes glitter with tears. It hurts, doing this to someone he's loved so hard and so long, but some part of him feels oddly satisfied taking back control.

"If that's what you want, I'll do it," Charles says softly, letting go of Pierre's hand and eyeing him with nothing but regret. He stands and takes the two steps around the patio furniture before reaching to gently cup Pierre's face between his hands.

"Can I...?" Charles trails off, his voice softer than the warming steam off a mug of fresh coffee, face written a thousand times over with sadness. Pierre doesn't say anything, just nods and leans in when Charles brushes his lips against his own, lingering for what seems like a long time.

When they part, Charles waves sadly, and the sliding glass door shuts with a clunk behind him. Pierre's not sure how long he sits unfocused and mentally blank on the balcony, sunlight warming him with each passing minute. He's not sure how long it takes for Charles to get dressed, collect his things, and properly leave, and he doesn't know when the front door closes with a creak. Pierre's not really sure what he knows or feels anymore.

He stands, grabbing his now long-emptied juice cup off the table and pushing the chair in. There's a twisted sort of admiration Pierre has for the city when he looks back out into the mass of twisted buildings and gridlocked streets; down below, everyone's life in Milan except for his own seems to go on without falter. Nobody looks up to see him, and there's something oddly soothing about that fact.

Eventually he creeps back inside, making a mental note to finally buy proper blackout curtains for the living room, too.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thank you for reading and leaving comments/kudos, they're a massive motivation for writers to keep on going and they mean the world to me!!  
stay home, stay safe, stay healthy everyone!


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